


At the End of the Night

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst and Porn, Character Study, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Object Insertion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 23:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18788419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Jaime remembers Ser Arthur, but Ser Arthur is dead. Now all he has is a sword.





	At the End of the Night

Jaime wishes that sword had never come back to King's Landing.

He supposes he cannot hold it against Lady Dayne, who wishes only to honour her late brother, even as she kneels and scrapes before the king who took the place of the man her brother vowed to defend, the man he died for. Jaime laughs a little at the thought. No one can say the woman is not brave. You'd think most nobles would be wiser than to remind a ruler that their family fought for the people who's bones their own throne is built on, to the bitter end, but then again, the Daynes are Dornish. They do things differently there.

And Jaime supposes he is in no place to judge, for as much as he whines and moans about how he wishes the sword had never been brought here, he's the one who's stolen it and taken it to his rooms.

That is also unwise, but he reasons, he's the queen's brother, and if the Daynes want their sword back they can bloody well come get it. Not that he's planning on keeping it forever. He doesn't think he could bear that.

So that raises the question, what is he doing with the damn thing? What possible use could he have for Dawn? What could anybody? He's no Sword of the Morning.

It stares at him from across his chambers like it has eyes, and Jaime huffs in frustration. It looks smaller than he remembered it. When he was five and teen, it looked huge, huge enough to carry all it represented. Or maybe that was just Arthur. Maybe he made everything around him look so much bigger than it was.

Jaime winces, as much as he tries not to. He doesn't like to think of Arthur too often, although it never seems to stop him. He doesn't want to think of what Arthur might think of him now.

He grabs Dawn by the hilt, tosses it from hand to hand. No proper sword is that light. No wonder Ser Arthur always beat him at sparring. That's all it is, isn't it, a sword? The only thing that makes it special is that it's a little lighter in colour. That's all. Dawn, what sort of name for a sword is that, anyway? That's not a sword, that's a two copper whore Tyrion's snuck into the castle for the night.

The thought makes Jaime laugh. And then it makes him think. Ser Arthur loved this sword so much. He was Sword of the Morning, and this sword made him what he was. But he's dead, long dead. He died for Rhaegar, the perfect prince who stole the Stark girl for no reason Jaime's ever understood and plunged the kingdom into chaos, just so he could get his prick wet. Maybe the Sword of the Morning was always just a pretty title, and nothing more.

_This sword is just a two copper whore,_ and maybe Jaime's drunk, maybe Cersei's been too busy being queen to attend to him lately, but either way, he's never been any good at repressing his impulses.

He's up too late in any case; as the hours of early morning drift by, it's easy to convince himself to shed all his clothes for bed. But then he is left all alone in a room with that sword, and it whispers to him cruelly.

_Ser Arthur would loathe me for this,_ he thinks as he lies back, nude as a babe, weighing the blade in his hands. But Ser Arthur would loathe him if he knew what he was at all. Even back then, when he was just a boy, he was already fucking Cersei – and Ser Arthur would accept that from the Targaryens, because everyone accepted that from the Targaryens, what choice did they have? But him, no, of course not. He was meant to be a knight. How could a knight do such a thing?

And now, oh, and now. Arthur died defending Rhaegar, when he was already dead, when the capital had fallen, when they could be nothing in it for him at all. He did that because of his oath. So how could he ever understand Jaime, who broke that oath, who put a sword through their king's heart?

_I did the right thing,_ Jaime reminds himself, but it does him no good. It only makes him wonder whether Arthur could have done the same thing had he been in Jaime's place, and Jaime doesn't want to think of that. He wants to remember Ser Arthur as he was – as the knight he always dreamed of being. He doesn't want to realise what he must have been – another man, no more and more less.

He spits upon his hand and grabs the hilt of the thing fiercely. Cersei has done this before, many times. She has always dreamed of being a knight, or at least a man like him, of ruining him with her cock. He has always indulged her. They are the one soul in two bodies; whether he fucks her or she fucks him, what difference does it make?

But she is not here for him tonight, is something he also doesn't want to think about. _Ser Arthur would loathe me more than ever for this,_ but he's dead, isn't he? He died for his fucking principles. Ned Stark stabbed him bloody but made sure to return his sword after. That sounds like him.

There is oil for this sort of thing, to keep the metal smooth and fresh, and Jaime has no hesitation about covering the hilt in that. It might bloody well be toxic if you put it inside you, but that's something he can worry about later. It can't be the most dangerous thing he's done with a sword.

Even as he stretches his arse with his fingers the sword in his hand feels too strong, too thick.

_It's too much for me,_ but Ser Arthur always seemed like too much too, and he was taken down like any other man in that war. So who knows?

He smothers a cry of pain when he starts to push the hilt inside himself. He's fought a thousand battles, and knows not to cry out anymore. _Ser Arthur would loathe me for this._ Of course he would, that's the bloody point, isn't it? He is dead. What he thinks does not matter. And what Jaime loathes is that part of him still craves that man's approval, a man who embodied everything he ever wanted to be, and who embodied everything that makes him sick these days. Ser Arthur could never approve of him, ever. And yet Jaime still dreams of the man coming to him, telling him that every awful thing he did was secretly the act of a true knight.

That makes Jaime loathe himself more than Arthur Dayne ever could.

He forces the sword in as deep as he can, moaning like a whore and grabbing his cock, stroking his cock to keep himself hard. He remembers all the times Cersei has done this to him, split him apart on her whole fist, watched him fall apart. She alone has always loved him for who he is, as loathsome as that might be.

But try as he might, he still remembers Arthur Dayne. The man is basically a distant memory by now. But Jaime remembers he knew him, loved him, all but worshipped him.

His fellow kingsguard used to say things about Ser Arthur – none of them had ever seen them with a mistress or a whore, and so of course they assumed he must prefer something else. Jaime would never believe it though. Ser Arthur was so good, so pure, he must have been above such things. Still, he stared at the man in the gossamer cloth they wore beneath their armour and their white cloaks, and he wondered.

He wonders now, on his back with a sword hilt lodged up his arse. He was no blushing maid when he knew Arthur Dayne, and is even less of one now. But he imagines if that man ever fucked him, he would feel like one. Arthur would be gentle, would be kind, would kiss him and whisper sweet nothings in his ear. He would fill Jaime's hole like it's something to be pleased, not to be conquered. He would do the right thing by him, because didn't Arthur do the right thing by everyone? That's what got him killed.

Jaime comes with a cry, the sort he hardly lets himself ever make, even with Cersei. He imagines Arthur fucking him, holding him, kissing him – but he isn't. He's dead. And Jaime is wanking with his sword.

It's awful, it's disgraceful, it's disgusting – but it's no worse than anything else he's ever done.

He yanks the hilt out of him and lets the blade clatter to the ground, the sound more obscene than anything before it. The suddenness of it all aches. He feels bruised inside; there are tears in his eyes and a lump in his throat, but he will not cry, no. There's nothing to cry over. He did all his crying a long time ago.

_I disgraced his memory,_ but of course he did. That was the point. The memory of Arthur Dayne is the memory of everything Jaime ever wanted to be – but he cannot believe was ever even possible. Because if it was, how could he justify what he is now?

But still Jaime remembers that man, loves him, and wants to be loved back. But Arthur is gone. He can neither love, nor forgive. All Jaime has is a sword, that is, for all the fancy titles and colours, a fucking sword.

 


End file.
